


It's Just Staying

by buffchester



Series: Magic and Science [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Potterlock, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Wizard Sherlock, reichenbach fall au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:54:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffchester/pseuds/buffchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU of the scene on Bart's rooftop in Reichenbach Fall and events immediately following. This takes place during chapter 2 of Magic & Science.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A good bit of dialogue taken from Sherlock episode 2.3, The Reichenbach Fall. It belongs to the BBC and to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Please don't sue me.  
> Also, I suck at titles.

Jim Moriarty sat on the roof of St. Bart’s hospital, sharply dressed in his usual Westwood. He held his phone in one hand, “Staying Alive” floating out of it. 

 

Sherlock walked over to him, one hand on the wand in his coat. There were two ways for this to end, neither of them pleasant.

 

“Here we are at last. You and me, Sherlock, and our problem— the final problem. Stayin’ alive!” he held the mobile aloft as it played. “It’s so boring, isn’t it?” He turned off the music and held his hand out, palm down, skimming the air with it. “It’s just— staying.”

 

Sherlock paced, watching Moriarty warily. He was like a feral cat, unpredictable and dangerous.

 

“All my life I’ve been searching for distractions. Biding my time until the Dark Lord returned. You were the best distraction, and now I don’t even have you. Because I’ve beaten you.”

 

Sherlock paused and turned to watch as Moriarty stood and began pacing the roof.

 

“In the end it was easy. Convincing all your little idiot muggles that I wasn’t real. You should have stuck closer to home, Sherlock. They’re so easy to fool.”

 

“Why bother?” Sherlock asked with a snarl.

 

“Oh Sherlock, don’t act like them. Don’t act like you don’t know. Like you’re _ordinary_ , just like the rest. No, no, no, that won’t do!” He pulled a deranged face, stopping in front of Sherlock. A moment, and his mouth twisted into a smile, eyes still wide as saucers. 

 

“ _He’s ba-ack_ ,” Moriarty sing-songed.

 

“Voldemort.”

 

“A cigar for the gentleman!” Moriarty shouted as he walked away, turning his back on Sherlock. Sherlock’s fingers twitched for his wand. “Ah-ah!” Moriarty turned to look at him. “Not very gentlemanly to attack when one’s back is turned.”

 

“So what’s your plan then? Imperius me off the roof? Lacks finesse.”

 

“Oh, there’s more to it than that, Sherlock. I’d rather you did it yourself. Go on. For me.” Moriarty grinned at Sherlock as he walked toward him once more. “Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive.”

 

Sherlock watched him with a frown as he considered what he could mean.

 

“Your friends will die if you don’t.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. Fear. No.

 

“John.” The man who was his best friend, who he trusted with his life. He never expected to have a best friend.

 

“Not just John.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Everyone.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson.” The woman who was his one tie to the world he grew up in.

 

“ _Everyone_.”

 

“Lestrade.” The man who always believed in him.

 

“Three Death Eaters. Three Killing Curses. Three victims. There’s no stopping them now.” Moriarty got into Sherlock’s face and stared. His eyes were cold and dead, a shark’s eyes. “Unless my people see you jump. Or—”

 

“Or what?” Sherlock snapped. He had had quite enough of Moriarty’s games. His eyes blazed with fury. “Don’t you get everything you want when I’m dead?”

 

“We’ve been watching you, you know. You’re the best, even if I did beat you.”

 

Sherlock clenched his jaw as he realized what exactly he was getting at. Death Eaters had been trying to recruit him since he left Hogwarts, but he could never work for a man so devoid of morals. He may not always himself have the moral high ground, but he would never stoop to that level of evil.

 

“Never.”

 

“Then you know what to do-o,” he sang. Moriarty grinned a Cheshire grin at Sherlock. “You can have me arrested, you can torture me. You can do anything you like with me, but nothing’s going to prevent them from casting that spell. Your only friends in the world will die, unless—”

 

“Unless I kill myself.”

 

“You gotta admit, that’s sexier. They’re just waiting for it, itching for some blood. Yours, your friends, it doesn’t really matter _whose_ blood.” He added, gazing out at the city below. “They’ve been out of the game for a while, you see.” Moriarty walked to the edge and peered down. “Oh, you’ve got an audience now. Off you pop.”

 

Sherlock slowly walked over to the ledge.

 

“Go on. I _told_ you how this ends. Your death is the only thing that’s going to call off the killers. _I’m_ certainly not gonna do it.” Moriarty looked up at Sherlock, ready and waiting for what was to come. Sherlock looked down at the street below, his breath ragged. He knew the the plan would have to be executed perfectly, or people — the wrong people — would be hurt.

 

“Would you give me one moment, please? One moment of privacy?” He turned to glance at Moriarty. “Please?”

 

Moriarty rolled his eyes. _Ordinary Sherlock, ordinary._ “Of course.”

 

Several moments. Several breaths. And then.

 

A switch flicked in Sherlock’s mind. Perhaps he can be beaten after all. Perhaps he can avoid the plan altogether.

 

Sherlock’s face broke into a slow smile. A low chuckle. Moriarty turned sharply to glare at the consulting detective, drawing his wand.

 

“What? What is it?”

 

“‘ _You’re_ not going to do it.’ So the killers _can_ be called off, then. Green sparks? A Dark Mark? Not horribly subtle, I grant you. Legilimency? A feat at this distance, but not impossible. I’d be impressed.”

 

Sherlock circled his enemy. _The tables have turned._

 

“I don’t have to die— _if I’ve got you_ ,” he sang.

 

“Oh! You think you can _make_ me stop them! You think _you_ can make me do that?”

 

“Yes. So do you.”

 

A demented giggle, and then, “Sherlock, your brother, the Minister of Magic, and all the king’s horses couldn’t make me do a thing I don’t want to.”

 

“I am not my brother, remember? I am you. Prepared to do anything, prepared to burn, prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell, I will not disappoint you.”

 

“Nah, you talk big. You’re ordinary. Ordinary. You’re on the side of the angels.”

 

“Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one _second_ that I am one of them.” With that he drew his wand, pointing it at Moriarty. A blue charge emitted from all sides of the wand, looking like a machine readying for action.

 

“No, you’re not. I see.” Another giggle. “You’re not ordinary. No. You’re me.” Moriarty pointed his own wand, flicking it lazily in Sherlock’s direction. A red ball of light hurled itself at Sherlock, knocking him backward. Sherlock jumped up and sent deadly blue sparks back at the madman, who fell to the ground and remained there. Jim Moriarty’s eyes were closed as a small smile played on his lips.

 

“Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you.” He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock as he slowly lifted himself from the ground. He sauntered over to Sherlock, wand in hand, but Sherlock didn’t move.

 

“As long as I’m here, you can save your friends. You’ve got a way out.” Jim’s mouth twitched into a half smile. “Well, good luck with that.” At that, James Moriarty turned on his heel and disapparated.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stared at the empty space with wide eyes for a moment before cursing his own stupidity. He should have known Moriarty would turn and run like a rat from a sinking ship. No honor among thieves, nor murderers, nor even “consulting criminals” for that matter. And without him, no one to call off the killers. Only one way out.

 

He knew he had to move quickly. Everything would need to be timed perfectly. He took out his phone, thumbs dancing across the screen. He typed a single text message.

 

_To: Molly Hooper_

 

_Now._

 

_SH_

 

Message sent.

 

He had one phone call to make before he disappeared. He walked to the edge of the roof and put the phone to his ear.

 

“Hello?”

 

“John.”

 

———

 

“No. SHERLOCK!” John screamed as Sherlock spread his arms wide and began to fall from the roof. Sherlock tried to block out the sound. Can’t think about that now. He needed to—

 

“FOCUS!” cried the Molly Hooper in his mind palace. She held his shoulders, shaking him. “This has to be timed perfectly. You’re picking up speed as you fall.”

 

“When do I—”

 

“In your transformed state you’ll be able to land on your feet. It will have to be far enough from the ground to have time to right yourself, but close enough that no one will see.” She was behind him now, and Sherlock turned to see the petite woman in the white lab coat. Her hair was parted to the side, in a twist. _You changed your hair. Suits you better this way._

 

“Almost there. Are you ready? Now!” At her direction, he began his transformation. His body shrank as the black hair grew all over his body, until a thin black cat with blue eyes landed on its feet and scurried into the shadows. He watched as the corpse Molly had prepared appeared in the spot where he would have landed, magicked to look bloody and beaten. It was a convincing body, surely enough to convince John and the others, never mind the Death Eaters. His friends would be safe for now.

 

He saw two figures in hospital uniform run to the body. He recognized them after a moment, two witches he had met before, long ago. Mrs. Hudson had recruited some members of the Order, must be them. He watched as he was pronounced dead at the scene. The body was lifted onto a gurney and carried inside, following closely behind. With everyone distracted, he was able to slip inside unnoticed. The shorter witch saw him, and surreptitiously held each door a little longer than necessary for the group to get in, allowing Sherlock just enough room. He followed them into the morgue, where Molly Hooper waited. 

 

He slipped into a cabinet, door ajar. Molly was playing her part well, he noted, overwhelmed and distraught. An hour later, the body was prepared, clothing removed, cleaned, and she was able to begin.

 

Mike Stamford was there to act as her assistant, as Molly had insisted she was able to carry on with this autopsy, despite having known the victim quite well. She wept, attempting very hard to do so silently and with little movement. Sherlock could see that even in her distress she was very good at her job, working precisely and carefully. Another moment, however, and she was unable to contain the tears any longer.

 

_Why_ he thought, _is she crying? She knows I’m not actually dead, and God knows she can’t be_ that _great an actress._ He watched her carefully, wondering what he could possibly do to make her stop. _No, no time._ He would be leaving as soon as she was finished, and he would be gone. She would be done and she would be safe.

 

He saw her tears and thought of John, who had watched him fall. Of Lestrade, who no doubt was one of the first to arrive at the scene. Of Mrs. Hudson, who was waiting for him at Baker Street. This was for them, and two of them wouldn’t know it until it was all over. 

 

“Molly,” Mike spoke up. “Go on home. I know you were friendly with him. At least as friendly as anyone could be.” He smiled sadly at her, and she returned his smile, with tears still in her eyes. She nodded silently and walked from the autopsy table to the sink nearby, removing her gloves and washing her hands.

 

“Thank you, Mike.”

 

“Of course. And Molly—why don’t you take a couple days? I know this was quite a shock. I can have someone cover you for a bit.”

 

“Okay. Again—thank you. I—I appreciate it.” She took off her lab coat, tossing it in the laundry bin near the office door. She gathered her things and left, followed closely behind by a black cat.

 

At times like these she was glad to work in the morgue. Far away from the patient rooms and the surgery wing, few ventured down here if they could help it. She walked down the empty hallway for a moment before moving to one side and leaning against the wall. The tears came more quickly than they had, and she had to put her bag on the floor as she put her arms around herself and allowed herself a few sobs.

 

Sherlock stopped in front of her and watched her. Molly thought if a cat was capable of producing a puzzled expression, this was it. She sank down to the floor, smiling at him.

 

“Just humor me, okay?” Sherlock cocked his head to the side, and Molly took that as permission. She held out her hand to scratch his head between his ears, and he leaned into her palm, starting to purr. Molly giggled, trying to connect the purring feline with the exasperating man she loved against reason. “I’m sorry you’re dead. You’ll come back, though. Right? Oh hell, I look like a daft woman talking to a cat.” Sherlock-the-cat seemed to smile at her as he nuzzled her hand. She smiled at the unexpected affection.

 

Wiping her runny nose on her sleeve, she stood up, righted herself, and took a deep breath. She opened up her bag and held it out to Sherlock. “Okay you, in the bag. You’re going home.” He leapt into the bag, and she (carefully) slung it over her shoulder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm hoping to have the next chapter of Magic & Science finished this week, but my life is a little topsy-turvy right now, so I'm afraid to make promises. Planning a move to another city, and still looking for a job. :/

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write this scene since I had the idea for this AU. I hope I was able to do good things here.


End file.
